


Behind the Concept

by Rinat114



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 05:26:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinat114/pseuds/Rinat114
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It will be the story of them, and he'll be the one to put his finger on the ribbon covering the book wrap, sealing their unfortunate fate."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Concept

**Author's Note:**

> Sets after the series finale. Deb gets shot, yet doesn't drift into a coma. She recovers instead, and Dexter is still in Miami. Also posted on FF.

He pulls at the pieces, each in turn after dividing them into six exact sections with his favorite knife.  
Each piece peels out with a beautiful sound and he's reminded in an instance of human flesh. Hot, sticky blood, pouring thick through his fingers.  
He can't help but take more joy in his doings, his steady fingers working relentlessly.  
When the last piece comes undone, he rolls the round fruit between his fingers, valuing his own work.  
He thrusts his index finger in the middle of it, poking and tearing through the flesh, smearing juice all over his palm and down his wrist. It's messy and sticky and he thinks about blood again and it's thrilling him to the very core.  
He examines both of the now separate pieces in each hand. Years of practice and the results are showing. Frowning, he decides to pick the better half, examining them both with a keen eye. The piece in his left hand is barely a winner, if only for the still intact pulp around the corners.  
He offers it to Deb without a glance, not ready to disclose his confrontation over the orange.  
She merely shoves his hand away, denying him with a grim look on her face.

"You even peel an orange like a killer." She notes, and he refrains from laughing.  
He contemplates on whether she sees every human action on his part as thoroughly inhuman, thinking of his extracurricular activities and his dry, callused blood-bathed fingertips touching unassembled body parts before touching her.  
Her irritation slowly fades into tired acceptance when he loops an arm around her shoulder, making her scoop closer against his bare chest.  
Still holding her half, he nudges his hand in front of her, offering her the fruit once again. This time, she wordlessly accepts, grabbing it from him and shoving a slice into her mouth, chewing on it halfheartedly.  
It's coming, and he prepares himself by tucking a thick slice down his mouth, fresh sweet juice filling his cheeks, covering for the sour taste that's about to pour down on him once again.

"We can't do this anymore." She breathes, with her chin pressing sharply against his chest like she's trying her best to hurt him, even in their compromised position.

"You already said that two days ago, and the week before that, and-"

"Shut up. Just shut up." She interrupts, her shoulders suddenly slump, making her look a lot smaller than she already does.

Betrayal. What a wonderful concept. Be-tra-yal. It won't roll on his tongue properly. He tries again and again, wondering if she can hear the silent movements of his mouth. He finds comfort in how good they are at this. He's about to think on the concept of guilt when she takes a deep breath, and he follow suit.  
They smell of sex, and orange peel, and sex.  
There's a small smile on his lips and he's not proud of it.

"You need to leave."

A quick glance at his wristwatch tells him otherwise. He shoves the rest of his orange to his mouth, chewing on it before answering.

"No I don't."

"Yes you do." She argues and struggles out of his hold on her, sitting straight on the bed beside him. The sheets barely manage to cover her breasts, and he stares.

"Joey's coming back in less than an hour. I need to change the sheets." She tries, her voice trailing off a little when she notices his gaze.  
"Up here, asshole." She snaps her fingers in front of his face, making him look at her.

"You're beautiful." He murmurs, and he believes every single word he says. It might not be his first, but it feels like it every single time. Expressing, that's another funny concept. Ex-press. This one's is an easy roll on his tongue. He likes it.

"And you need to get the fuck out of here." She says, barely fazed by his statement. Is she getting used to it?  
His head cocks aside in consideration. Harrison, pick up. Two blood reports, not done. Groceries. too many. Hannah, visit. Jamie, out of the question.

"We have at least twenty more solid minutes." He finally says.  
Should he bring Hannah flowers? That way she can't smell Deb on him and it elevates her mood, he thinks.

"Jesus, Dexter. No. Just no." She rubs her hand against her forehead, tucking the sheets closer to her body instinctively.

"Are you going to eat that?" He refers to the neatly peeled orange she holds. It's stupid, and he smiles like what she would only call a 'fuckwad'. He deserves the scowl he gets, and it's not entirely unexpected from her when she launches the helpless fruit at her bedroom's wall. It hits with a burst and there's an obvious ugly stain plastered awkwardly on the lower rim, closest to the door. He silently wonders on how she's going to explain it to Quinn in 'less than an hour', but he's quickly distracted by the literal coldness she displays and how it's making him shiver involuntarily.

"Pick a flower." He asserts, knowing it'll piss her off even more, but it's the only card he can think of pulling without being so blatant about wanting to stay with her a little while longer.

"Fuck me," she groans, "Are you bringing her flowers again?" Her eyes narrow at him, her jaw clenched.

He nods.

"What am I? Some kind of flower expert? I don't know. Roses?" She offers, her gaze drifting to the wall in front of them, examining the mess she's made.  
He hides a smirk, knowing she wouldn't dare to say white roses. She knows he's perfectly aware those are her favorites. Brian would agree.

"You already said that last time." She glares at him now and he can't help but shrug, hiding his small triumph.

Her body slowly slides downwards under the covers, the thin blanket coming on top of her head, covering her from head to toe.

"This is so fucked up, Dex. On so many different levels" He can hear her vague voice from deep under. He mimics her movements, meeting her in the dark, the thick air suffocating them both.

"Do you want me to leave her?" He questions, his gaze falling upon her face, trying to capture hers. She quickly tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She doesn't answer.  
He moves a bit closer, just enough to invade her personal space. One hand then another, stroking her legs up to her arms, feeling her shiver under his touch.  
Her sharp intake of breath when he finally traces the sides of her breasts is the only answer he's going to get, and he's fine with that.  
The first time he asked, she said "Fuck no!", a fierce, determined look to her delicate features. The second time he asked, she said no again, but with a low, uncertain murmur. She stopped answering after that, but he wouldn't give up trying.

"I have Joey." Her response startles him, and he stops stroking, his hands pressing onto her skin instead, the grip intensifying with every passing moment. She squirms under him when it gets too much, but he's reluctant to release her, his fingertips pale white by the pressure. It's going to bruise.  
He moves again, this time hovering smoothly on top of her, his knee coming between her legs, forcing her to part them wide enough. She stops breathing for a second, and he dreads she'll never breathe again.  
His fingertips are tracing again, his hand slowly gliding down to rest on her gunshot scar. That makes two, now.  
The air is getting thicker under the covers and he tempts to release them both from the agonizing atmosphere, but there's  _something_  in it, being there with her, his eyes boring through hers in the dark, and his coherent thoughts are thrown out the window momentarily.

"Then why," his hot breath is hitting her neck and she shivers once again, "are you fucking  _me_?"  
She gasps when he emphasizes the word 'fucking' with a small thrust of his hips, allowing her to feel how hard he is.

"Y-you're", she finds it hard to breath and he can't blame her, given her position, being trapped under her big brother, knowing she's about to get fucked, and the turmoil of the anticipation weighing down on her.  
He presses himself even closer; her breasts flush against his chest, her pebbling hardened nipples pressed timidly against him.

"I can't have a life with you." And oh, he knows that she's right. And he's going to buy the flowers anyway, and return home to a certain blonde fugitive, who still thinks there's an Argentina waiting for them, but in reality there's only Deb, and she's waiting for  _him_.

Her wound scarred badly, and his fingertips are suddenly hesitant and trembling, thinking of  _what ifs_  and what he would do if it came down to the unfortunate event in which she… No. She cannot possibly die. She's his Deb, and she's invincible, and she's  _his_.  
He allows his hand to glide down again towards her thighs, stroking her inner ones ever so lightly, his gaze still fixed on her like she's the only constant thing in his life.  _And she is._  
"We endure." He once told her. What a joke.  _She_  endures. She endures  _him_.  
He claps, whistles and shouts her name admiringly in his mind, lifting a bunch of heavy signs with her face plastered on each of them. He's her biggest fan and she's his, but always by default. He stopped operating on auto-pilot a long time ago, exposed and vulnerable to her every blow. Did she?

His fingertips gingerly graze her clit and she's trembling violently under him, trying to compose herself unsuccessfully. He circles her sensitive bundle of nerves with the pads of his fingers, using her own wetness to help with his ministrations. She's soaked and his head is touching the clouds. He's watching her bite her own lips so hard she's amazingly close to drawing blood.  
 _Blood._  What a beautiful concept. Definitely rolls on this tongue, he doesn't even need to give it a try.  
She moans, and he quickens his pace, rubbing her just right.  
The sheets are stirring underneath his weight, and he knows that she's gripping at them harshly.  
His ear is coming to rest by her neck, listening carefully to her pulse, flattering unsteadily, letting him know that's she's oh so terribly close, and then he stops.  
She gasps, her pupils dilating and darkening. Her hand shoots up to his wrist, tying to get him moving once again, but he's steady and stubborn and reluctant and he can tell she's this close to hitting him, so he kisses her.  
It's chaste, and sweet, and not full of promise, and it's just the right trigger for her to curl her fingers around the hair on the back of his neck and pull him down towards her, bruising his lips with one hungry kiss.  
Her tongue strokes his lower lip and he can't help but grant her the access she's seeking, letting her explore his mouth as far as she can go.  
He pulls back a second too early, his lips out of reach. She lifts her head automatically, trying to get to him with the help of her hand still gripping onto his hair, but he stays still, frustrating her.  
He knows he can't push it too far or she might as well just storm off on him, but this is what she gets for not being able to have a life with him. His beautiful, shuddered sister.  
 _Sister_. It's supposed  to be the greatest of concepts to him, the most meaningful one, but he suspects it's no longer so. She was always so much more than that.

The blanket is suddenly off of them and he blinks, his vision blurred with the intense light of the room, the perfect contrast to him and his unraveling darkness. And it's  _her_  light that draws him down to her again, parting her legs with one swift motion, hearing her vague "Either fuck me or get out", before thrusting home. And all is quickly forgotten as she claws at his back, her heels coming to dig above his ass, forcing him deeper into her.  
The itch in his palms is no longer craving for a kill,  _blood_ , a heart to seize. It's craving  _her_  and her warmth, her embrace, that crooked smile she has only for his eyes, and it's his remedy, so soothing that sometimes he cannot breathe, wondering if she'd go down with him. He remembers a car, and a lake, and her mouth on him, reviving and giving him another chance on the life she was willing to take only a few moments beforehand.

She commands him to go harder, faster, releasing an 'oh god' on the go, and he obliges, never known for the ability to say no when she demands. She's awfully tight and warm around him, and he easily gets lost in her, kissing and biting her neck with undeniable hunger.  
She tries to wriggle her way out from under him so she can be on top and he allows her, knowing that this is the only sense of control she has over him anymore, and she needs it as bad as he does.  
She moans and gasps uncontrollably as she rides him, and blood slides be damned, this is his trophy, and he gets to keep it close as long as she allows him to.  
Her eyes are closed shut, and he imagines the things she sees.  
His hips claim dominance, bucking upwards to meet her thrusts halfway through. She's touching herself again, trying to ride the sensation to an orgasm, her fingers circling and rubbing and he stares because he can't help but notice that she's not gentle, roughing it up on herself just like he would.   
 _They're one._  
And with a beautiful long, soft moan she comes undone, pressing and clenching around him, her hips wiggling in circles. He groans, baring his teeth like a beast, spilling inside of her, his hands cupping her breasts, squeezing as they spasm with aftershock.  
Her heart is beating so fast under his touch, it's close to unbelievable, and he can't figure out if it's because she's afraid of him again or because of the sheer incredible sensation they just shared with one another.  
 _She cannot possibly be afraid of him again._  
The look on her face tells him he's terribly mistaken.  
Her hands are still pressed to his chest, and she's holding herself up high, not willing to collapse on him just yet, her arms trembling due to the physical effort.  
Her gaze turns to one of horror when he grabs her wrists, trying to balance her out, but he's painfully reminded that she can easily take it the wrong way, terrified of his upcoming actions.  
She's panting and she won't look at him anymore.  
Distant.  
He doesn't like distant.

"Are you ever going to let me go?" she questions unexpectedly, and he knows he doesn't have an answer for this one. Not yet. He'll go for a truce. His grip on her wrists is instantly loosened.  
He knows that she expects him to outsmart her, maybe drop a snarky remark on how she doesn't really want him to leave her alone, and he would be correct, but he's not about to point that out. Not this time. They've done this before, one too many times to count.  
He sighs heavily, his lips pursed into a thin line.  
Why would he, if she wouldn't at the time? She struggled to change him, make him a better, proper person. She flipped her world upside down for him, her path ruined by wrong choices, and she expects him to let go? There's a nagging scream at the back of his mind, telling him it's barely what she meant, but he ignores it completely.  
At the end of the day, she'll go back to the kind, bad-mouthed detective who reminds her too much of their mutual father, and he, her dear gruesome brother, will be there on her eventual wedding night, giving her multiple orgasms no matter how hard she's going to object, telling him that  _she has a husband_  and _they can't do this anymore_.  
She'll tell him she's pregnant and sob herself to sleep in his arms, because she's not sure whose child is it, and it might just turn out  to be another serial killer for them to take care of. It will be the story of them, and he'll be the one to put his finger on the ribbon covering the book wrap, sealing their unfortunate fate.  
He can't have that.  
But then he just sits there, waiting for her to say  _yes_ , that she wants him to leave  _her_ , and have a life with  _him_. Clueless doesn't suit him.  
What is it going to take?

"No." He retorts, and it's a progress, because he's genuine. Too genuine for her liking, and she finally collapses on top of him, her head placed on his chest, turned away from his hard gaze.

She's shrinking. Shrinking to the point of no avail, and he's the one consuming her, taking everything she has to offer only to give nothing back. And she's devoted, willing, submissive, trusting and loving, and he aggressively exploits and steals and he's a plain selfish thief, and there's no denying it. But he cannot bring himself to stop, because it's either this or killing, and he's given up killing, Saxon being his last victim to date. And it makes her happy, he thinks. But to what point?  
His head is pounding, and he's exceeded his twenty minutes stay four minutes ago.

She's crying again, and he loves her for it. He loves that's she's an emotional wreck, and he mentally kicks himself for his twisted thinking, but it's the awful truth. She's able to truly  _feel_ , and it's the essence of his love for her.  
He wraps his arms around her, stroking her hair like a brother would.  
Love. What a terrible concept. He's come so familiar with it and it's making him ache.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is greatly appreciated!


End file.
